


The Grey Warden's Love

by Katalyna_Rose



Series: Kahlia Mahariel [15]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-09-24 00:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9691967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katalyna_Rose/pseuds/Katalyna_Rose
Summary: For years Zevran has believed that Kahlia was dead, and he has never loved another. When she finally finds her way back to him, at first he thinks he must be dreaming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Image commissioned from @blue-misery on tumblr

Zevran knew what the people of Antiva City, his city, thought of him since his return over six months before. He knew that they thought he was crazy, ruined. And he didn’t care. He’d fought hard over the past seven years, killing any Crows sent after him until he finally was forced to return to Antiva City and slay the Masters. Once four of the seven of them had disappeared from their beds, the others had capitulated, made him their leader, their Guild Master, out of fear for their lives. He thought that was funny, that master assassins feared for their lives. The Maker knew he didn’t fear for his; he stayed alive only because he knew how furious Kahlia would be when he met her at the Maker’s side and she discovered he’d willingly allowed his own death.

It was getting harder by the day for him to keep going, however. He spent as much time as he could taking contracts, complicated ones that required time and stealth, though hopefully no lock picking, to complete. When he had no contracts available, he spent his days revising the way the Crows were run and organized and his nights at The Tavern, drowning his sorrows in cheap ale. He’d chosen that particular bar for a single reason; there were no prostitutes hired to seduce the patrons. Ever since he’d lost his Kahlia, the idea of touching another the way he’d touched her was entirely repugnant.

He’d tried to, once, when he’d happened to meet the Champion of Kirkwall while baiting a trap for a Crow called Nuncio. The Champion herself, while charming and flirty and quite beautiful, was entirely in love with a former slave, one who had not hesitated to stake his claim on her quite forcefully. Isabela, on the other hand, was as lusty as she ever was. He’d turned her down at first, then thought that perhaps she might be able to soothe him. After all, he’d been mourning Kahlia for years by then and he knew she wouldn’t have wanted him to stay celibate and lonely forever. Yet, once he had a very enthusiastic Isabela naked and trying to kiss him, he’d had to give it up.

“Ah, my apologies, my dear Isabela, but I do not think this will work,” he’d said to her. She’d frowned and pouted beautifully, then cupped her hand around his crotch. Her mouth had dropped open and her eyes had popped wide when she felt that he was entirely flaccid, no life stirring in him there.

“You don’t think I’m attractive anymore?” she’d asked, trying to keep her tone light but unable to disguise her hurt entirely.

“It is not that, Isabela. You know quite well that you are one of the few great beauties of this world,” he’d soothed. She’d just frowned at him. “It is not you that is the problem. You remember Kahlia, the Grey Warden who defeated the Blight?” She’d perked up at the mention.

“Oh, yes,” Isabela purred. “She was an eager little thing, wasn’t she? Not experienced, but she made up for it in enthusiasm.” Zevran smiled slightly.

“I loved her,” he whispered, and Isabela’s jaw dropped again. “I still love her. The problem tonight is not you, it is simply that the pain of losing her is too fresh. I cannot be with another when I still feel such love and loyalty for her.” The pirate’s expression had softened and she’d started putting her clothes back on immediately. For all her bluster, Isabela was soft at heart. Rather like Zevran himself, he’d thought.

“I understand, Zev,” she’d said, settling her tunic and beginning to lace up her corset. She smiled at him, all hint of hurt gone from her expression. “I’m glad you had that, even if it couldn’t last long.” He’d smiled and handed her the scarf she kept over her hair.

“As am I,” he’d said. “Even with how much it still hurts, I’d never trade a second of the time I spent with Kahlia.” Isabela had grinned and patted his cheek.

“Softie,” she’d teased. “Go on, then. Murder some Crows and earn some peace. I wish you the best of luck.” And she’d sauntered out of his tent back to Kirkwall.

Zevran sighed as he shook the memory away and drained his tankard. He barely noticed when a busty barmaid jiggled over to set down a fresh one. She leaned in and said something to him, but he wasn’t listening, wasn’t interested. When he saw her hand reaching for him out of the corner of his eye, he slapped it away and glared at her.

“Leave me now or I will rip your heart out of your chest and feed it to you!” he hissed at her, and all signs of coy seduction evaporated as she practically fled from him. He grunted to himself, scowling as he thought about what Kahlia would think of such a display. Gone was the suave seducer who had charmed his way into the beds of his contracts, the man he’d been when he’d met her. He buried himself in the fresh tankard and took a healthy (or unhealthy) gulp.

When he set the tankard down again, there was someone sitting across from him. He scowled at the feminine form beneath the bulky cloak. He couldn’t see her face, but he didn’t care in the least.

“How many times must I tell you people that I am not interested?” he growled at her.

“Oh, I have no intention of attempting anything,” she said, amusement clear in her voice. His scowl deepened as he wondered why she sounded familiar. He concluded that she must have been to his bed at some point in the past and tried to dismiss her from his attention, hoping she’d simply leave, but she seemed to have other plans. When she just sat there, gloved hands folded primly on the table in front of her, he asked, “Then what do you want?” He hoped it was something easy so he could get rid of her.

She leaned forward, resting her weight on her arms, and though her face was now closer to him he still couldn’t make out any of her features beyond the vague gleam of elven eyes in the dim light. “I want to know why the infamous Zevran, who has successfully taken over the House of Crows after being hunted by them for the better part of seven years, takes no one to bed anymore,” she said bluntly. Her voice still tickled at his memory, something stronger than some random bed partner, but he refused to admit to himself what it was.

He scowled at her answer and took another gulp of ale. That was neither something easy that would get rid of her nor something he was willing to talk about at all, least of all to a stranger whose intentions were not clear.

“Not going to tell me?” she asked, amusement clear in her voice again. He said nothing, simply narrowed his eyes at her. “Very well, then I will tell you my theory.” He grunted at her, thinking her odds of spouting anything but nonsense were slim to none. “I think that you fell in love,” she said, her oddly familiar voice hypnotic. He froze, his tankard halfway up to his lips. “I think that a woman you never expected stole your heart instead of your life when you failed to kill her as contracted. I think that you fought by her side for a year and shared a tent with her thinking that it was all as it had always been. You didn’t look at other partners. You didn’t need them. She was enough to slake your lusts. And when you realized that you loved her, you were shocked. You tripped over your words, and it was an entirely new experience for you.” His hands clenched around his cup. Her information was good, dangerously so, and he wondered if he should find her source before he killed her for what she knew or if he should just reach across the table and snap her neck. “And when she said she loved you, as well, you felt overwhelmed and joyful. And then you watched her die, and you cannot bear the thought of taking another to bed after what you had with her.”

And with that last bit, he decided that he simply needed to leave. He stood suddenly, knocking over his seat, and he didn’t give a damn. He glared at the cloaked woman in an effort to hide the pain she’d brought to his chest, where his heart used to be. “Who are you to make such ridiculous accusations?” he sneered. He turned to walk away, but her voice stopped him.

“You know who I am, Zevran. I can see that you recognize my voice.” He didn’t turn, couldn’t, but her words and her voice had him frozen where he stood. He did recognize her somehow, but he knew it couldn’t be true. “You tell yourself that you don’t, that I can’t be who you think you hear. But I am.” No, no, she really wasn’t. It was coincidence that her voice had a similar Dalish brogue to his lost love. That was all the familiarity he had with her. “Turn around and see me,” she said softly, but he couldn’t move. Then, as if his body had decided without his brain’s permission, he slowly began to turn, terrified of what he would find.

His eyes fell upon her uncovered face, and for a moment he was certain he had misunderstood her meaning. A scar stretched across the bridge of her nose up her forehead into her hairline, another marred her chin, she was pale as death, and she was dangerously thin and gaunt. Then he looked at other details of her face, the curve of her cheekbones and the point of her chin. He saw the molten gold of her eyes, a color as familiar to him as his own. Dalish Vallaslin marked the top half of her face, a crown-like design that represented the Halla Mother Ghilan’nain. Unruly red curls fell past her shoulders, unbound for once. She tilted her head slightly to her left, and the light caught on a glint of gold in the tip of her right ear. He cried out brokenly when he saw the earring there, a distinctive hoop with amber chips. It was her.

He stumbled a step toward her, then stopped and took her in again. No, she wasn’t Kahlia. She had to be some demon come to tempt him with the only thing he really wanted. He wanted her to be Kahlia so badly that he was ignoring the fact that Kahlia was dead.

“How?” he asked her softly. She stood and took a step toward him. Her gaze flickered to his hand, which he hadn’t realized was reaching toward her. He dropped it once he realized, and didn’t miss the disappointment in her familiar gaze. But those eyes… They held a depth of agony and rage in them that he’d never known from Kahlia before. Their color and shape were so familiar, but it seemed almost as if the person behind them was a stranger.

“I never died, Zevran,” she said, her voice breaking on his name. “I was gone, but I’ve come back for you.” He reached out again. He had to touch her, had to know if she was real. His fingertips made contact with her cheek and her lips parted on a soft gasp as goose flesh rose on her skin. She was real…

“Everyone thought…” he said, then halted, swallowing past his dry throat. “There was a funeral. There is a statue of you at Weisshaupt, I hear.”

“I know,” she admitted softly.

“Where were you?” he whispered.

“In the Deep Roads, where the darkspawn took me.” That agony and fury flashed in her eyes, bright and painful to see, but suddenly Zevran understood it and the new scars she had. Whatever horrors she’d seen and experienced had changed her forever. But then again, they were both changed forever, weren’t they?

“I am sorry,” he said, drawing closer, trying not to imagine what had happened to her. He took her face in both hands and noticed the band of burn scars around her throat that had previously been hidden by her cloak. He shuddered with rage that he didn’t fully understand. “I should have looked, should have tried to find you, should have-“

“Zevran, stop,” Kahlia said, and touched his cheek tentatively. She seemed to expect some sort of reaction, either from herself or from him. He leaned slightly into her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice as relief flashed briefly across her face; it was her own reaction she’d been dreading, then, and that was far more telling than he wanted to admit. “You had no way of knowing where I was. When I finally emerged, I was somewhere in Orlais. I have no idea where I was when I was underground. You never could have found me even if you had known to look. It’s not your fault.”

How could he not feel responsible? When he’d been told that they couldn’t identify which body was hers, he’d accepted it without question; so many of the dead were no longer recognizable. He should have questioned it, should have searched for her.

 _“Kahlia,”_ he whispered, rolling her name across his tongue. She shivered beneath his hands and he wanted to fold her in his arms and hold her close until the end of time, but he was so afraid of hurting her that he didn’t move. He wanted to kiss her, to hold her, to see the rest of her out from under that damn cloak. He wanted to be certain that she was really there.

“Zevran, do you still love me?” she asked in a small voice, and it broke his control. Moving as slowly as he could force himself to, he stepped forward and wrapped gentle arms around her. She stiffened for just a moment before melting into his touch just as he remembered. He closed his eyes briefly in bliss, then tilted her chin up to carefully press his lips against hers.

“I will always love you,” he breathed across her mouth, and she shivered but not with fear. “You are the only one I could ever love.” He pressed his lips a little more firmly against hers, and she melted into his touch. Then her mouth demanded more of him, and she licked the seam of his lips. He opened for her, and a tentative tongue flicked into his mouth before retreating. He chased it, determined to taste her, and groaned deep in his throat as their tongues danced together. It was like coming home.

“I love you, Zevran,” she whispered against his lips as she retreated slightly. He tried to pull back, to give her the space he was certain she needed, but her arms tightened unconsciously around him. He’d have to relearn how to care for her, it was clear. The woman in his arms was clearly still the Kahlia he’d always loved and always would, but she was also so clearly different, damaged, and they’d both need to relearn life together. He looked forward to it.

She laid her head on his chest, holding him tightly and trembling. “I am home,” she whispered, and he’d never agreed with anything more as he held his lost love close to his chest.

“Come home with me,” he whispered after a few moments. “Let’s get away from this place so we can talk.” He wouldn’t do anything more with her until he understood better where they stood and what she needed. She nodded, and he took her gloved hand in his. Pointedly ignoring the stares of many patrons, he led Kahlia out of The Tavern and out into the night.

As ever, Antiva was warm, and Zevran wondered for a moment why Kahlia was all bundled up in that bulky cloak and even wearing gloves, but he pushed the thought from his mind. He could ask when he got her home.

The trip was short from The Tavern to his apartment, and Zevran was relieved when he unlocked his door and ushered her inside. The place was rather bare, with little more than a bed, a wardrobe, a fireplace, and a long table laid out with weapons and poisons and the items to keep such things maintained.

Kahlia looked around with interest as she untied her cloak and let it slide from her shoulders. Zevran took it from her and she looked at him with surprise; it was clear that she wasn’t used to such courtesies. He’d remedy that, he thought as he hung it up on a hook by the door. Beneath it, she was wearing improvised armor; a cotton shirt and breeches were covered by uneven strips of leather. Most of her torso was covered by the stiff undyed leather, almost like a corset but with far less fashion and more utility. She had strips wrapped around her thighs and forearms, as well. She removed her gloves, and he took those for her as well, setting them on the little table next to the coat rack. He noticed that her hands were almost completely covered in scars and tried to tamp down the rage the sight inspired in him.

“So,” Kahlia said suddenly, amusement in her eyes that didn’t reach the rest of her face but for a small quirk in her lip, “Guild Master of the Crows, then?” Zevran chuckled slightly.

“When four of the Masters go missing, the others tend to panic,” he said with a shrug. She gave the smallest hint of a laugh, her mouth curving up just a little at the corners.

There was silence for a moment as both of them tried to figure out where to go from there. Zevran watched her as she looked everywhere but at him; surely the fireplace wasn’t as interesting as all that. Then he got an idea.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked her. “I have a few nice things.” She looked at him with surprise before her cheeks lightly colored and she looked away. She moved closer to the fire despite the dry heat of the Antivan night.

“I haven’t had a drink since… How long has it been?” she asked herself, her brow furrowing slightly as she thought. Then she sighed, apparently unable or unwilling to figure it out. “It’s been years,” she finally admitted. Zevran smiled. He had just the thing.

“Then I think something gentle is in order, no?” he asked, moving off to the small cabinet beside his bed. He reached inside and pulled out a bottle of rich, sweet wine and two glasses. He had a dryer bottle that was lower in alcohol content, but he knew how much Kahlia preferred sweet things. He poured the dark red liquid into the glasses and handed her one. She accepted with a tiny smile, still averting her gaze. She brought it to her lips and Zevran watched as she blinked in surprise and swirled the wine in her mouth. She swallowed and closed her eyes with a contented sigh. “You like it?” he asked her, taking a sip from his own glass. She hummed her assent.

“It’s far nicer than anything I’ve had in a long time,” she said softly and took another sip.

“I, ah, have no chairs,” Zevran admitted, chagrined, then cringed at his own words; she could clearly see everything he owned. She huffed a small laugh and folded her legs under herself, scooting a little closer to the fire. Zevran hesitated, then joined her on the floor. At least there was a rug to cushion them.

“I’m sure you want to know what happened,” Kahlia murmured after a few minutes of slowly sipping on her wine. Zevran had been studying the hollows of her cheeks and the gauntness of her face and planning to feed her as much as she could handle. He took a moment to consider her words.

“Well, yes, but I would not force you to speak of it,” he told her. It was clear that whatever had happened was painful, and he would never cause her pain if he could help it. Her gaze flashed to his face, surprise showing again, and he wondered what she had really expected to happen.

She looked away and ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward to obscure her face. It looked like an oddly practiced motion. “Sorry, I… T-the sisters always wanted me to talk about it. They thought talking about it would somehow help. It wasn’t until the Revered Mother got more than she bargained for that they stopped pestering me about talking about it.”

“Revered Mother?” he asked her, thinking that might be a safer topic to ask about than darkspawn or the Blight. Her hair moved to indicate that she had nodded slightly.

“I was found outside a small village, alone and starving and near death,” she said quietly. “The people who found me took me to the Chanty. They thought to make me comfortable as I died, but I refused to die once I was finally free.” She was silent for a moment and Zevran waited, trying to be patient even as he burned with curiosity and the need to comfort her. “I don’t remember much of the first six months or so. It had been so long since I was around people and I was so sick… I had forgotten how to speak, how to read, how to dress myself. The fever had been my only companion for years, and it had burned me out. Fortunately, the sisters had never seen the Blight’s corruption and they didn’t know that was what my wounds were infected with.” She rubbed a hand along her right side, just below her ribs, as if she wasn’t even aware that she was doing it. He wondered if some of her wounds had not yet closed entirely.

“It was over a year before I was healed enough to remember where to start looking for you,” she said abruptly after a few moments of silence. She still wouldn’t look at him. “Memories of you and the determination to find you again were all that kept me alive in The Pit. I would have let myself die or found a way to kill myself within a year without that. But I couldn’t just let go, not knowing that you were still out there, somewhere beyond those walls of stone that became the boundaries of my entire world. But the memories from before The Pit were slow to return, slower than anything else save the understanding of emotion. I had closed away my heart so thoroughly to protect it that I couldn’t remember how to feel for a long time. But I remembered.” She looked at him suddenly, and Zevran was startled by the burning emotions in her molten gold eyes. He could see everything she felt, nothing hidden from him, and he wanted so badly to kiss her and hold her close. Her mouth twitched into a small smile and he realized that he’d been moving closer to her. He forced himself to stop, but she scooted over until their legs touched. He lifted a hand and brushed her hair out of her face, gently tucking it behind her ear. He leaned in and kissed the point of her ear, just below the earring she’d worn through hell and back. She shivered.

“You do not have to justify anything to me,” Zevran told her softly as he realized that she felt she owed him an explanation for her absence. Her eyes widened as he looked at her, and he smiled. “You are here  now, and that is all that matters.”

“You would accept me that easily?” she asked in a whisper, moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. “You would let me back in without even knowing where I’ve been?” He wiped away a tear as it fell slowly down her cheek and fought tears of his own.

“The only reason I care where you’ve been is because it so clearly hurt you,” he told her. “If you’d been pole dancing in Rivain all these years, I wouldn’t care so long as you have returned to me.” The closest thing he’d heard to a laugh burst from behind her lips at his words.

“I never would have stayed away voluntarily,” she vowed, leaning in. She looked at his lips but seemed unsure, so he waited for her. He tilted his head to give her access if she wanted it, but he let her make the choice. When her lips met his, he groaned low and pressed closer, unable to help himself, and she melted for him. He reached to pull her in, to hold her close, but when his hand pressed into the small of her back, she gave a cry and flung herself away from him. He released her immediately.

“Kahlia?” he asked nervously, trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. Had he pressed on a wound, perhaps? Or was it a psychological wound he had touched? She continued to shake and breathe heavily. She wrapped her arms around herself, her wineglass still clutched, forgotten, in one hand. It was a miracle she hadn’t spilled it, Zevran thought.

She continued shaking, hunched over with her knees drawn up and pressed tightly together, and Zevran fretted over what to do. He decided that perhaps he needed to distract her. “Kahlia, I am here,” he said, to give her the sound of his voice. One long ear twitched in his direction, but she otherwise didn’t respond. “Kahlia, you are here with me. I love you, and I will protect you no matter what. Te amo, Kahlia. Come home to me.” Her shaking eased, and she took a deep breath. Her eyes flicked over to him, then skittered away.

“Sorry,” she murmured, but he shook his head.

“Do not ever be sorry for being hurt,” he told her softly, sincerely. Her eyes flicked back over to him and remained focused on his face. He offered her a smile, and she relaxed slightly. “What happened? I would like to avoid causing you such pain again.” She sighed.

“A couple of the wounds in my side aren’t quite healed yet,” she admitted. “The taint in my blood makes the infection harder to get rid of, so I heal slower.”

Zevran tensed. “I have bandages and healing salve. Would you allow me to change your bandages?” He waited until she hesitantly nodded, then stood and retrieved the necessary items from his wardrobe. He winced at how empty it was, then downed the last of his wine in preparation for seeing the evidence of Kahlia’s pain. After the ale in The Tavern and now the wine, he was feeling a little woozy, and he wondered at the wisdom of what he was about to do before he dismissed the thought.

When he returned to her, Kahlia was laying her improvised armor aside and keeping her face hidden from him. He knelt beside her and laid out the bandages, a damp cloth, and the jar of salve. She lifted her ill-fitting shirt over her head and off, and Zevran had to bite hard on his lip to keep from making noise at what she revealed. Her skin was cut and burned in more places than he could count, some of the scars old and healed, others new and shiny. In many places it looked like acid had been dripped onto her skin, but it was the hand and finger-shaped burns that told Zevran the story Kahlia couldn’t bring herself to voice. The way those hands had been positioned on her waist and hips told him a tale so horrific he felt like he might vomit. He had the insane urge to slaughter every last darkspawn in existence, despite the impossibility of such a task, in the hopes of destroying those that had touched her in a way no one but him ever should have.

“Zev?” Kahlia whispered, her voice small and scared, and he realized that he’d been staring at her scars in silence for far too long. Her shoulders were tense, her arms wrapped around herself, and her face was entirely hidden from him; she was afraid of his response, probably worried that he would reject her since she wasn’t the fair-skinned beauty she had been before. But it wasn’t her skin that had drawn him to her like a moth to a flame.

“Kahlia, I need to remove the bandages, yes?” he said in as calm a voice as he could manage. He waited for her to nod and lower her arms into her lap, then carefully unwound the linen bandages from around her ribs. What was revealed inspired that murderous instinct in Zevran again, and he had to take a few deep breaths to swallow it down before he could continue. Her skin was rent by claws, the edges burned and slightly blackened by infection. The whole of it smelled almost rotten. With careful touches, Zevran applied his healing salve, sparing a thought to be grateful that he’d spent the money on one that was imbued with healing magic. Kahlia hissed as he applied it, and he whispered endearments to her, slipping into Antivan in some futile attempt to comfort himself with the familiar cadence of his native tongue.

When Zevran finally wrapped the fresh bandage around her and secured it, Kahlia wasn’t the only one shaking. Zevran wiped his hands thoroughly and threw away the old bandages, then sat beside her again and rubbed his face with trembling hands.

“I would kill them all for what they did to you,” he whispered, his rage forcing the words past his unwilling lips.

“Would you, then?” Kahlia asked. Her voice was soft and he couldn’t discern the emotion in it. He gave a harsh laugh.

“Yes! If I could not prevent such abuses, I should at least avenge them!” he cried, then took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

“Am I ugly to you now?” Kahlia asked him, and he was so startled that he nearly jumped out of his skin as he looked at her.

“Never!” he cried, then winced at how loud it had come out. He sighed. “Maker’s breath, you could never be ugly to me.”

“Even covered in scars?” she asked.

“No matter what you look like, you are my Kahlia, my love,” Zevran told her earnestly. “I did not fall in love with your looks; I fell in love with your soul. And even so, you are still beautiful.” She looked doubtful, so he forced a smile and moved closer. I touched her hair gently. “Your hair has always been a point of fascination for me,” he admitted. Her dubious look made his smile a little more genuine. “It is so soft and bouncy, like silken springs. It is a glorious  mass of chaos. And yet you preferred to keep it bound severely back. I could understand such a style during combat; surely such buoyant and beautiful curls would get in your eyes and obscure your vision, but you kept it that way at camp, too. The first time I saw it down was when we were intimate, and I wished I could convince you never to put it up again.”

“It never does what I tell it to,” she muttered like a petulant child, and Zevran grinned.

“Much in the same way as you, mi amor, no?” he teased, and her cheeks flushed with color. “And your eyes,” he continued. “They were the first thing I noticed about you. I opened my eyes, trussed up like a turkey after being thoroughly whipped by two Wardens, a chantry sister, and their dog, and at first all I could see was molten gold.” He smiled at the memory. “I thought you were Andraste there to guide me to the Maker until I noticed that you were an elf, and Dalish at that! Then I realized that I was in pain and thoroughly tied up, and I understood that I was not dead. I had expected to die that day, even with all the mercenaries I hired and that apostate that lured you into my trap. Yet when I saw you, when I spoke to you, I decided that perhaps my curiosity about you might be worth living for, at least for a while. Death is not so glamorous as all that.”

“My eyes convinced you to live?” Kahlia asked doubtfully, a beautiful little frown of confusion on her face. Zevran chuckled.

“At first,” he admitted. “Then you kept showing me all the ways in which life was worth living, even as we fought impossible odds against a monstrous enemy.” He tilted his head and regarded her with a smile. “I wonder when I first fell in love with you,” he mused. “Perhaps the seed was planted when you agreed not to kill me. It was watered when you gave me those Dalish gloves, I think. I still have those, by the way, and the boots. I even still have the gold and silver bars you gave to me. I know you gave them to me intending that I use them as currency to escape the Crows, but I could not bear to part with them.”

“I wanted you to be free,” she whispered, and he grinned at her.

“And it was likely when I realized that about you that I fell in love,” he said. “You cared so deeply about us all, even the assassin who had been hired to kill you, and such care was irresistible to me. You are compassionate and intelligent and wise and strong and beautiful. Yes, even now you are beautiful,” he said when she opened her mouth. She closed it again with a wry twist of her lips.

“I am not the same anymore,” she told him. “I doubt I have the capacity for much compassion anymore. Zevran, I am so damaged.” She shook her head, looking lost, and he couldn’t stand it. Carefully, he tilted her chin so she would look at him, then he gently kissed her lips.

“I am damaged, as well, amor,” he told her, their faces only inches apart. “Perhaps we can heal together.” She nodded vigorously and without hesitation, and he smiled against her lips.

“I am home,” he whispered as he carefully embraced her.


End file.
